Cracking Locks
by Blackbirdox
Summary: Eames unravels the mystery that is Arthur and figures out what it is that's made him the way that he is.


Eames is a naturally curious individual- so says Arthur, anyway. Eames tends to prefer the term observant because he doesn't just study people for the hell of it, as the word curious might imply.

It's just his job to figure things out- to observe a person and discover everything about them, inside and out. He has to know their habits and their likes and their dislikes and the lines and planes of their bodies. He just has to know _them_ and he has to know them better than most anyone else would. Maybe even better than they know themselves.

He notices the little things- the tremors in someone's hand and the way their eyes twinkle when they smile; the way they nervously play with their hair or fiddle with something, a tie, perhaps, or the cuff of a shirt sleeve- and that's what he prides himself on. That's what he centers his entire life and career on and he's proud of it, this little ability to notice anything about anyone.

Anyone except for Arthur, of course.

Arthur is a challenge. He always has been and, Eames assumes, he's always going to be because he keeps his head about as guarded as an offshore bank account.

It's full of secrets- secrets that are tucked away behind figurative walls and locks and safes, shrouded by mental security that would shoot you as soon as look at you.

He's a private person and Eames understands that, and that privacy is crucial in their line of work, but it continues to frustrate him because Eames knows Arthur better than anyone and yet he still manages to be a complete and total stranger- elusive, evasive and enigmatic.

He feels like he should know Arthur better than he does; like he should know more than just the basics- his likes and his dislikes and his habits and favorite things.

He feels like he should know more about Arthur than the fact he has a tie in every shade of blue because it's his favorite color.

Or that Arthur, when they're not working a job, wears glasses- silly, plastic looking black frames that tend to sit crooked on the bridge of his nose.

Or that Arthur likes to cook- and that he's quite wonderful at it.

Or that Arthur can only sleep if he's laying on his right side- on the right side of the bed, no less- and that the most subtle shift in movement towards any other position will wake him right up.

He should know more than the taste of Arthurs tongue and the texture of his hair and the exact weight of the arm that Arthur slings across his waist- sometimes consciously, most of the time unconsciously.

It's been five since they met, three years since they became involved with one another and ten months since Arthur just sort of blurted out 'I love you'- prompting Eames to do the same, naturally- and Eames _should_ know him better. He should know more than he does; all these trivial, mundane things that don't mean much of anything at all.

He's always wanted to get inside Arthur's head, get behind the walls that have frustrated him for so long, and then one day, by sheer happenstance, he does.

Arthur's tucked away in the back corner of the warehouse, curled up on one of their rickety lawn chairs with the PASIV needle buried deep in the curve of his slender wrist.

The sight makes Eames take pause and then raise an eyebrow, and the corners of his mouth turn down into a frown. It's gotten late, quite late, actually, and Arthur was supposed to be home hours ago. Hell, he was supposed to be _working_, but the stack of papers on his desk is as thick as it was when Eames left so he knows that hasn't been going on.

He tells himself not to interfere and he tries to convince himself that it would be rude but he's never been one for doing the sensible, logical thing and he's certainly not going to start now.

Arthur hardly ever goes under alone and never unsupervised and finding him here, doing both of those things, both surprises and concerns Eames so he's not just going to let overlook this like it's nothing.

Pursing his lips, he drops his jacket to the dusty floor and unbuttons the cuff of the right arm of his shirt, rolling it up to his elbow as he makes his way over to the vacant chair opposite Arthur.

Eames sits down, and then he hesitates. He spins a second wire through his fingers, twisting and twirling it as he assures himself that he's doing the right thing, and then he just shakes his head and easily slips the needle under his skin- reveling in the familiar pinch and the warm, lazy spread of the sedative that makes his eyelids droop and his limbs go loose.

The dream is hazy- that's the first thing he notices when his eyes reopen. The dream is hazy and that's odd because Arthur's dreams are usually crisp and clear, as pristine and neat as the man himself.

The more Eames takes in, the more he realizes that it's not dream so much as it is a memory. Faint and faded, but a memory none the less.

Things in the distance (trees- like the one he's ducked behind- a house, the sky, the grass, something that resembles a swing set) are blurry and sort of out of focus. Filmy.

Some of the details (the shingles on the roof, the flowers in the garden, the color of the cement of the driveway) look a little piecey, sort of like the gaps of the memory have been filled in randomly in an attempt to recreate them in their entirety.

But then there are certain aspects (the heat of the sun, the texture of the grass, the weight of the humidity in the air, the sounds of passing a cars and, faintly, a child laughing) that are perfect- so vivid and striking that they almost seem real.

The whole thing is beautiful and refreshing in a simple way because it lacks the complexity and the intricate nature of Arthur's typical dreams. It's something _different_- a proverbial breath of fresh air that ignites and arouses his curiosity in a way that's quite unlike anything he's ever experienced.

His head whips around from left to right, trying to focus on anything and everything, but then his gaze lands on Arthur and he just stops and grows completely still.

It's not Arthur he's looking at. Not exactly. It's a projection; one who is several years younger than the Arthur he knows now.

This Arthur couldn't have been any older than twenty five- still youthful and lanky with floppy, messy hair and days old stubble; clad in an un-ironed, slightly wrinkled suit that resembles something Arthur once scolded Eames for wearing. He just looks so _young_- so carefree and open and Eames can hardly believe the man he's seeing here is the same man he'd been looking at only a few moments before.

There's a blur of movement that catches his attention next and Eames' gaze is immediately drawn to it, following a flash of red and dark brown as it shoots across the yard and stumbles to a stop in front of Arthur, attaching itself to his legs.

It happens to be a little boy, Eames realizes, probably around the age of three. He's small and sort of gawky; his bright red shirt hangs loose on his shoulders and his jeans are baggy and a little too long and they cover at least half of his matching red sneakers. His dark hair is a shaggy mess and the ends wave and curve out in about a thousand different directions, similar to the way Arthur's naturally does.

And then the boy turns around and Eames' breath catches in his throat because everything from the hair to his pale, freckled skin to his bright brown eyes- _everything_ just makes him look like Arthur in miniature form.

Eames' throat tightens and constricts in a way that makes him feel like he can't breathe and he just stares wide eyed as he watches the projection of Arthur laugh and kneel down to pick up the boy, swinging him around before crushing him to his chest in a tight hug.

The boy just laughs and wraps his tiny arms around Arthur's neck, letting out a delighted squeal of _papa!_ as he tucks his face into the juncture of his shoulder.

A woman joins them, Arthur's mother, Eames assumes, judging by the gray in her hair and the wear on her gentle face, and she smiles tenderly as she pecks Arthur on the cheek and runs a hand over the boy's hair, pushing it back and out of the way of his eyes.

She whispers something then, but Eames doesn't get a chance to hear it because Arthur- the Arthur from reality- is suddenly right in his face, looking as furious and menacing as Eames has ever seen him.

As the dream loops and begins to replay behind them, Arthur raises a pistol and Eames just closes his eyes as the shot goes off.

When he awakes, Arthur is already up, hauling himself out of his chair and forcefully tugging the needle out of his wrist. He throws, literally throws, the wires to the side and they land on the metal of the briefcase with a small _plink_. Eames winds them all back up and tucks them away safely in their case, knowing that Arthur won't stand for any damage inflicted to the machine.

He turns his gaze back to Arthur and his mouth suddenly feels very dry so he swallows, struggling to find the words he knows he needs to say. "Arthur," he starts, and he wants to apologize and he wants to ask the questions that are bubbling up on his tongue but Arthur just holds up a hand and cuts him off.

"I'll see you at home," he says icily, turning his back on Eames.

A pang of guilt, sharp and serrated as a blade, jams itself into Eames chest and it lingers there like a heavy weight until he makes it home and then it just becomes painful. Arthur is already in bed when he gets there and his eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed, so much so that Eames' stomach clenches and rolls, making him feel sick.

He slips out of his shoes and crawls into bed, cautiously sliding an arm around Arthur's waist. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Arthur tenses but says nothing.

And the silence goes on for days.

Arthur hardly even looks at Eames and he takes to sleeping on the couch or the bed in the guest room. And if he does happen to speak, it's just to answer a question and it's always short and clipped- _yes, no, I'll be home around eight, I don't care what we have for dinner, Daniel, I'm not that hungry._

They dance around each other and avoid each other and neither one of them mentions the proverbial elephant in the room. Eames considers it, several times, but he knows it's better not to push Arthur so he does his best to repress his questions and the unquenchable feeling of curiosity coursing through him.

It takes over three days, approximately 77 hours, not that Eames was counting, before the 'incident' is mentioned.

Arthur, skin and hair still damp from a shower, joins Eames on the couch and sits sideways to face him, tucking his feet up underneath himself and settling his elbow against the back of the couch. "You have to understand something," he says, and Eames closes his dog eared paperback and tosses it onto the coffee table, turning himself around to mimic Arthur's position.

"What you saw," he starts, and then he pauses, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "What you saw happened a long time ago," he says eventually.

Eames says nothing, just arches an eyebrow as if to say, _you have my attention, go on. _

And Arthur does, drawing in a shudder of a breath before he says, "That was my son."

His brow rises by a minute fraction. _Was?_

"He died," Arthur explains simply, in a whisper that comes out soft and cracked.

And Eames figures he probably should have seen that one coming but he hadn't, and the weight of Arthur's confession slams into him, giving him the feeling of having just been punched in the gut. "Oh," he breathes, uncharacteristically lost for words.

Arthur gives a disheartened little shrug. "As I said, it was a long time ago."

Eames' fingers inch across the back of the couch until they find Arthur's and he winds his own around them and gives them a small squeeze. "You've never mentioned him," he says and his tone isn't accusatory or angry, just slightly surprised.

"I should have," Arthur admits. "You didn't deserve to find out that way and I apologize."

Eames just snorts. "You have nothing to apologize for," he assures him. "If anything, I'm the one who should be apologizing."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches just slightly, so quickly that Eames almost misses it. "I won't argue with you about that."

They sit in silence for a moment, Eames stroking the back of Arthur's hand with his thumb. "Would you like to tell me about him?" he asks, hesitant and cautious.

The tight lines of Arthur's mouth suddenly go lax and his expression turns to one of genuine surprise and he just stares at Eames with a look that's so incredulous, it's almost humorous. "You want to know about him?"

Unable to help himself, Eames just chuckles and he releases Arthur's hand, sliding his own up to graze his thumb across Arthur's cheek. "Of course I do, pet."

Arthur blinks and then he smiles, languid and loose, like he's just had some kind of invisible weight lifted off his shoulders. "William," he says with reverence, quiet and tender like he's speaking a prayer. "His name was William."

"William," Eames repeats, curiously rolling the syllables around on his tongue, feeling the weight and the texture of them. "It's a good name," he concludes finally. "Very English."

"Daniel," Arthur chides half heartedly with a roll of his eyes.

With that, Eames throws up his hands in acquiescence and keeps his mouth shut during the brief beat of silence that follows, giving Arthur a chance to collect his words and gather his thoughts.

Arthur starts at the beginning and he tells Eames about what it was like to be twenty three, working his very first job in the field of extraction.

He tells Eames about South Africa, Cape Town, specifically, and how hot it was in the middle of the summer when the air was so humid and heavy. He tells him about the rest of the team; Cobb and Mal in the early days of their marriage and Kaleb, the forger.

And then Arthur tells him about the spitfire of a chemist who called herself Layla and how beautiful she was- all tanned, freckled skin and sandy curls and emerald eyes. He tells him about her silver tongue and her intelligence, her temper and her tendency to wear leather pants in the swell of the summer.

He tells him about the late nights they spent together- hunching over work, laughing together during breaks.

He tells him about completing their job and celebrating- a bar, a haze of smoke, pulsing music, downed shots, reluctant dances, the curve of Layla's mouth, a hotel, scratchy sheets, waking up to an empty bed.

He tells him about moving on to the next job and the next city and waking up to a frantic call from his mother that came nearly a year later.

Arthur pauses then, swallows, and assures Eames- and, Eames assumes, in someway, he's assuring himself- that she had done the right thing.

"She couldn't support him," he says. "Neither one of us could. I- _we_- we had work and neither of us had the means to give him what he needed. My mother stepped in and without her…" Arthur cuts himself off then, like he can't bring himself to finish what he's trying to say.

Instead, he shakes his head and he continues and he tells Eames about the red eye he took that night and how nervous and scared he had been.

"You, darling? Scared?" Eames interjects tenderly, the corner of his mouth curved up. "I don't believe it."

Arthur breathes a chuckle, carding a hand, the one that's not currently locked tightly in the grip of Eames', through his hair. "Believe it."

He then goes on to tell him about arriving at his mother's house, the one from his dream, and holding William for the first time. He tells him about how tiny he had felt, how little and light, and how his hair had been wispy and brown, his skin tinted with pink. He tells him about how William gripped his finger in his tiny fist and how, in that moment, Arthur had fallen in love for the very first time.

He tells him about all the time he had visited and how William changed every time- sometimes in subtle ways and sometimes in ways that were so glaringly obvious.

He tells him about being there to hear his first word and, though he'd missed his first steps and he hadn't been around when he lost his first tooth, how unbelievably proud he was every time his son met a new milestone.

And then he tells him about what happened the year that William turned four.

_It_ happened only a month after his birthday.

_It_ happened in June, when the sky was at its bluest, the grass was at its greenest and the sun shone brightly at high noon- shrouding the world in warmth and comfort.

_It_ happened at the hands of a team hired by the heads of a company that Arthur had 'botched a job for'.

_It_ had been a kidnap and a murder and Arthur says very little about it- only what's necessary for him to finish his story.

And when he does finish, Eames' head is spinning and he's a flurry of all kinds of different emotions- some of which he doesn't even recognize.

Anger. Hurt. Sympathy. Respect. Understanding. Appreciation. _Love. _

"I wish I could have gotten to know him" is the only thing he can think of to say and his voice comes out scratchy, roughed up from the lump that's taken residence in his throat.

Arthur's answering smile is fleeting and pained. "I wish you could have too."

Eames slides his arm down from the back of the couch in an unspoken invitation and Arthur curls up underneath it, dropping his head onto Eames' shoulder. "I can show him to you, if you'd like," he says softly and Eames just smiles, pressing a kiss to the crown of Arthur's head.

"I would."

And so they go under the next day- together this time.

They stand side by side, hand and hand, and watch as Arthur shows him everything.

He sees William as a baby- chubby and smiley and sucking on Arthur's fist.

He sees William keeping Arthur up at night and Arthur looking completely frustrated and disheveled until he starts to sing, soft and low, and that becomes the trick that immediately puts the baby to sleep.

He sees William's first birthday and he sees him slamming his tiny fists into his cake and he sees Arthur standing behind him, looking utterly ridiculous but every bit a parent in a crooked party, wearing the most brilliant smile Eames has ever seen grace his face.

He sees William as a toddler- still chubby and smiley and sucking on a blue sippy cup.

He sees William perched on Arthur's knee and he hears him babbling away as Arthur bounces him up and down, making him laugh and squeal.

He sees William's second birthday and then his third.

He sees William being scolded by Arthur as they stand near the remnants of a broken vase- the first time he'd ever gotten in trouble, Arthur will tell him later.

He sees William learning French and listening intently as Arthur tries to explain the mechanics to him.

He sees William sitting on Arthur's chest in the backyard, evidence of an obvious tackle and pin maneuver.

He sees William's forth birthday.

He sees William's funeral.

And when he returns to reality, Eames sees Arthur. He finally _sees_ him and there are no more walls or locks or safes. There's nothing left for Arthur to hide and nothing for him to hide behind.

He's gotten in like he's always wanted to and now he understands everything.

Arthur's professionalism and his love for privacy and his straight-laced nature- every bit of it all makes sense now and yeah, Eames figures he might have gone about everything in the wrong way but now that he knows, he doesn't regret it.

He's finally cracked Arthur in the way that he cracks everyone else and even though it might have been one of the most challenging things he's ever done, it's also one of the most rewarding because to have Arthur open and venerable in the way that he does is something rare and beautiful.

And Eames loves him just a little more because of it.


End file.
